Mysteries of the Universe
The Teletext Theory of Existence
TUESDAY: I'm too busy to postulate, compare, or gripe today, but I've got to mention my lunch. It's brie, cashews, sun dried tomatoes, and fresh dill on a Sainsbury flat seedy roll. Mmmm, good! it really is. I'd sell this in a cafe if I had a cafe, or at least in a sandwich shop. I could call it Cashew Dill Brie Sandwich with Sun dried Tomatoes or something equally descriptive. Or else perhaps just Fred.
WEDNESDAY: On this inaugural day of the Large Hadron Collider my sandwich is a simple one: Stilton on seedy roll with the merest hint of mango chutney. Like a simple beam of blue and yellow particles all going in one direction it's not meant to chart new territory or to prove the existence of anything. It's only meant to taste good.
This morning at 8:28 BST the scientists at Cern in Switzerland turned on the Large Hadron Collider, sending bundles of protons around the 4.4-mile-long inner ring. At around 11:00 a stream of particles was sent in the opposite direction. Fifteen minutes later I was chatting with my workmates about what all this means and could mean. I suppose "chatting" isn't the right word: "expounding, babbling, and foaming at the mouth with zeal" is probably a more accurate description of what I was doing. We spoke of the proof or disproof of string theory and the Higgs boson. Everybody instantly warmed to the idea of string theory being validated, specifically the proof of extra dimensions existing beyond the ones of which we are physically aware. As we moved books along the library shelves we imagined an alternate life form, perhaps even extraterrestrial, sitting at cafe tables and sipping cappuccinos in the exact space where we were shelving books, perhaps aware of us but perhaps not. I was leaning toward the idea that we would each be unaware of the other because in my mind I was just then formulating my Teletext Theory of the Universe.
For Americans who aren't familiar with Teletext, it is sort of a plain-text information, news, and directory system available on UK and European televisions. Because there is a time delay between the actual display of one line of raster data in a broadcast TV signal and the next, Teletext information can be broadcast in the vertical blanking interval (VBI) which occurs between image frames. (For those wondering why this didn't take off in America, it's probably because the higher-definition PAL television system used in the UK consists of 625 scan lines and the NTSC system used in America is only 525 scan lines.) What this means is that when we switch our TV to Teletext, we can access information completely separate from the regular television broadcast because it is displayed alternately, eg. at a different time in different scan lines. So if we have 10 space-time dimensions but we're only using 4 of them, it makes sense that somebody else could be using the other 6 dimensions -- sort of like a timeshare universe.
As one revelation progresses into another, I'm afraid I must expand on this theory. In the UK more people live in less space than in America, so the UK portion of the universe could be more high-definition than the American portion. Would that mean that those of us here in Yorkshire are sharing our space and time with significantly more life forms than Californians are? Does this mean Brits have the potential to experience significantly more telepathic episodes, hauntings, and other paranormal experiences than Americans? Or is it simply because the Brits are more likely to be barking mad?
I'd like to expound further, but I've just received a conference call on my mobile from Uri Geller, Isaac Newton, and Cleopatra which I need to attend to before Amelia Earhart texts me back…
God Particles and Poodle Perms
TUESDAY: Lunch today features a new Sainsbury's flavour of houmus with roasted red pepper and basil pesto. It's quite nice. I've got it in a whole wheat breadcake from my local bakery with cream cheese and my usual garnish of red pepper/spring onion. It's a slippery sloshy sandwich that, along with my slippery sloshy container of fresh raspberries, cherries, nectarines, and melon, makes for quite a sloppy meal.
This morning my bus was packed to the gills, but I managed to squeeze behind a massive hooded man into the only free seat on the bus, a window seat facing backwards. Like most slightly neurotic people I prefer facing the front and gazing into the future rather than watching the past slip by. But today, as we spent a very long time stopped at the next bus stop, I had a perfect view right into my local neighbourhood dog grooming shop. I watched as the groomer clipped a large curly dog, rendering its hairs into the past as a small terrier watched disapprovingly from an adjacent cage. From my view through the door I could see part of the price list on the wall, with an entire menu for Poodles, one for Spaniels, one for Collies, and one listing miscellaneous breeds. And I smiled happily when I realised that being the only rear-facing passenger on that side of the bus, I was privileged to have my own private viewing experience.
WEDNESDAY: Lunch is odd: a marriage of not enough haloumi for a sandwich with not enough mature cheddar for a sandwich. Like Marmite and peanut butter they go surprisingly well together.
Last week I hungrily devoured the Guardian's supplement about the LHC or Large Hadron Collider, the new particle accelerator at Cern which is due to be turned on later this summer and will hopefully, by colliding two counter rotating beams of protons, recreate the conditions and energies that existed shortly after the Big Bang. I suppose I'm a bit more excited about this than most of my friends and workmates, but I do have a strong interest in physics. Although my love of mathematics when I was young was stalled a bit in high school by an extremely boring teacher whose Texas monotone took all the fun out of trigonometry, I still love to read about physics and maths from a laywoman's point of view.
Ten years ago I became so enamoured with chaos theory that I read probably 10 books in a row on the subject, branching off into complexity and symmetry breaking, and then I wrote a novel based on the butterfly effect and my idea of fractal time. So this huge, massively expensive particle accelerator -- which has the potential to answer many of the greatest questions of physics, not to mention philosophy -- excites me in a way I can't describe without becoming just a bit obscene.
One of the questions it is hoped the LHC will answer is if the Higgs boson, aka the God Particle, actually exists. It is theorized that this subatomic particle is responsible for mass. So if it is discovered that the Higgs boson doesn't exist, does that mean we're all figments of our imaginations? And although Michio Kaku, author and professor of theoretical physics, explains that any potential black holes created by the collider will be so minute they will dissipate instantly, why are so many people fearful that he could be wrong? I mean, if a black hole were created that was big enough to swallow the universe, as some sceptics fear, would it really matter? We'd never know the difference, would we? Have you ever been swallowed by a black hole? Me neither. I wouldn't think it would hurt much. And I think my lifelong California-born fear of being on the toilet when the Big Earthquake strikes just wouldn't come into account.
Another theory the LHC is hoped to prove or disprove is string theory, which proposes that the physical universe is based not in 4 dimensions of Space-time but in 10 dimensions. This worries me a bit, as I've been very excited about string theory ever since I first read about it. In fact, in one of my coffee columns I suggested my Ball of Superstring Theory based on the fact that cats seem to perceive matter in not only more than 3 physical dimensions but in several differently timed dimensions as well. To me this is the obvious explanation of why cats seem to have so much fun. And if string theory is disproved, life just won't seem nearly as entertaining.
On the other hand, how will they go about proving or disproving string theory? Do they need a bunch of cats watching the results? In the £2.6 billion budget for the LHC, I certainly hope they've allowed for enough catnip.
Marmite on the Moon
TUESDAY: Lunch is mushroom tarragon paté and cream cheese on a sundried tomato rustic roll. I know it sounds a bit odd, but I do like to prove that us pescaveggies can eat a wide variety of fascinating and delicious things.
Speaking of fascinating and delicious brings me to the namesake of this blog: Marmite. For any readers who have never met Marmite, it's a brewer's yeast extract first introduced in 1902 in Burton-on-Trent, from whence Bass Ale and many other famous British ales originated. If you want to know any more, check out my Marmite page or the Marmite FAQ.
The other day I was talking to a workmate about how years ago, after discovering the gooey black magic of Marmite during a holiday in the UK, I was excited to find I could buy Marmite back in America. Perhaps not at the average corner grocery, but at my gourmet liquor deli in California and at an Italian deli in Seattle. (Of course Marmite isn't Italian; but this deli stocked a wide range of European goodies.)
As Marmite is such a unique substance, with their advertising motto saying it all -- you either love it or hate it -- it has become one of those comfort foods from home that Brits sometimes pack when they travel to other countries, along with HP Sauce, Henderson's Relish, and good old fashioned English tea bags. I generally find this habit a bit offensive. I mean, if you're going to visit another culture you should do as they do and not foist your own culture upon them. But in the case of relocating to another country and living there for awhile, I can see how one might be tempted to bring along a treat from home.
Which brings me to the original topic of our conversation: just how far abroad has Marmite actually spread? Further than the edges of an American slice of toast? Do Canadians eat Marmite? Does Vegemite have a monopoly on Australia?
I decided to do a little investigation on the Internet to find out which nationalities speak Marmite. Obviously the French do, as the French marmite is a rounded earthenware cooking pot which inspired the yeasty spread's name. To this day there is still a picture of a marmite on the label. What I learned was that one can purchase Marmite at several shops in Paris, although according to one blogger the French describe Marmite as déguelasse which means "gross". But this comment could relate to the 50% of the French population who would statistically hate Marmite whether they've tried it or not. And the other 50% might love it. This is of course assuming the Marmite love/hate thing has travelled across the Channel.
What impresses me is the fact that Marmite can be purchased all over the world. It can be found at many shops all over the USA, Australia (where it's called OurMate), and South Africa, and at any grocery store in Canada. There are three German cities where one can purchase the black goo; one source in Rome; one shop in Gothenberg, Sweden; two places in Norway; and one shop in Auckland, New Zealand. It can also be purchased in Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, Switzerland, Spain, Portugal, Gibraltar, Malta, Greece, Denmark, Poland, Romania, Slovenia, Cyprus, Israel (where the more liberal Jews consider it kosher enough), Malaysia, the Philippines, Thailand, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Japan, and all over Singapore. And although it's not strictly sold in the Czech Republic a similar product made by Tesco is available.
Whether you can buy Marmite in Greenland or Antarctica is debatable. And I wouldn't expect to find it in Madagascar or Bolivia or Togo. But who knows? I suppose wherever the Brits travel is fair game. I seriously doubt one can find Marmite on the moon -- unless, of course, one of the astronauts happened to leave a jar up there along with all those Hasselblad cameras.
I wonder if there have been any Marmite-loving astronauts. Imagine if one had accidentally let a jar of Marmite escape into the cosmos, perhaps when she or he was conducting an experiment with Marmite while taking a space walk. Among all the thousands of satellites, objects, tools, gloves, and other debris orbiting the Earth, there might be a jar of Marmite -- a theory I expect you can either love or hate.
Blog Servers, Catholic Time Travellers, and a Recipe
TUESDAY: I took the time this weekend to roast a red pepper, so my sandwich today is Leerdammer cheese, spring onion, and roasted red pepper on a sun-dried tomato rustic roll. It’s so cheap and easy to make delicious roasted red peppers for sandwiches, especially if you have a jar of capers in the fridge. For those readers who suffer from capsicum phobia or who refuse to eat anything that doesn’t come with a list of ingredients and a sell-by date, you should skip the following paragraph. For those interested in my recipe, here it is:
Take a red bell pepper -- or even better, one of those big long pointy red peppers -- cut into fourths, discard seeds and stem, and roast skin-side up under the grill on a piece of foil until the skin is well blackened. Then wrap the hot pepper pieces in wet kitchen roll and leave for a couple of minutes. Then remove the skin, slice into strips, and place in a lidded container with a little vinegar from the capers and maybe a tablespoon of capers –- or, if you have no capers, a little wine vinegar will do. Add a splash of lemon juice, a small dollop of olive oil, and a dash or two of cayenne. If you have some fresh basil around throw a bit of that in as well. These will keep in the fridge for a good week or two, and they make any sandwich special, and they’re also good in salads or to just eat.
Okay, I’m done. As you may have guessed, I don’t have much to write about today because at the moment I haven’t even been able to upload my blog for last week. I think 20six is a brilliant blog site as far as user-friendliness, ease of customisation, and the number of features available. But why is their site always down? I’ve become accustomed to it being down every Saturday morning when I try to upload my blog. But this past weekend I couldn’t access it on Sunday, either. I have mixed feelings about 20six at this point. I just hope and pray they get their act together soon, because I do like to imagine that somebody somewhere occasionally reads my blogs. Maybe some Internet junkie with no offline life who lives in Podunk, Nebraska or Ysvdst, Siberia and reads blogs all day –- or perhaps an expat Sheffielder living in Seattle who positions her laptop in front of a mirror so she can read a reflection of my Expat-Seattleite-in-Sheffield blogs.
Or perhaps it’s only you, Steve.
THURSDAY: Spring is finally in the air, and boy, is the flora confused. A lot of daffodils aren’t that bothered about showing their faces this year, and deciduous trees are hesitantly budding, wondering if the weekend will attack with a freak blizzard or a killer heatwave.
But plants aren’t the only confused souls. I’m still reeling from the fact that Irish bishops decided to move St Patrick’s Day from 17th March (a Monday) to Saturday the 15th of March. I mean, can they actually do that? Does this mean Christmas is in danger of getting moved to the nearest Saturday? And what about New Year’s Day? Perhaps we should ring in 2009 on Sunday January 4th instead, so that we can all have a bang-up Saturday night New Year’s Eve celebration.
And then we should all have the privilege of moving our birthdays around. That would really confuse the astrologers, wouldn’t it? Let’s see . . . since my next birthday conveniently falls on a Saturday, maybe I just might move it 7 days forward to the following Saturday so I can have a more economically viable end-of-the-month party. Or to avoid growing older so quickly, I could just postpone it for six months. Perhaps I’ll reschedule my 2009 birthday for 2019 so I can sit back and enjoy my current age for a few years.
If we start moving dates around willy-nilly, we really need to be sure that Time will accommodate such whims. After all, if we decided to move 1 June to 15 August this year, what sense would a use-by date of “JUNE 1 2008” make on a jar of Marmite? If we knew that the jar of Marmite was able to travel 2.5 months into the future, then we’d have no worries and, considering the nature of Marmite jars, perhaps this is possible.
But can you imagine, if people and objects start bouncing backward and forward in time, the massive traffic jams and tailbacks on Time’s multi-dimension-laned superhighway? The potential of those arrows of time crashing head-on is a bit frightening. I can picture a horrific pile-up of midlife crisis sufferers and 2-for-1 packets of king prawns, with blood and brine streaming everywhere –- and all for the sake of a more convenient time.
And how would the insurance companies cope?
